I haven’t been taking the train much recently. Maybe twice a year? Usually I go during the week because I have an appointment. Last Saturday, however, I was meeting a friend Downtown so I decided to just hop the train. I took the 10:37 am. It was a milk run, hitting every stop and took over an hour. And it was almost full when I got on it, and mine was only the third stop. I immediately grabbed the first available seat on the top level, the seats on top are single so you’re guaranteed some sort of privacy. The air was stuffy and smelly, they didn’t turn the AC on. And the noise was deafening. Is it a requirement to conduct conversations on the train by yelling? Or to board the train with screaming children even if you just parked your car that is perfectly capable of driving you to the city in peace and comfort? It was so loud that I could still hear everything even with my iPod blearing in my ears full volume. I realized that I should have reloaded with heavy metal playlist, my collection of Melody Gardot was not cutting through the insanity below. The JCrew girl – sitting across from me – attempted to do her Italian homework gave up after five minutes and slumped in her seat in despair. Probably counting days till her trip abroad where she could zip from country to country in comfort of Eurostar.
And then there were the visuals… There were ample cleavages, with two sets of tan implants (that would explain the large group of youths squeezed into a couple seats behind me, from their point they could ogle without being punched in the face by the cleavage’s partner); a man with a case of beer – bottles – that he held on to for dear life the entire ride; a large man with an enormous belly wearing red/blue/and white diamond pattern shorts; a buttoned-up woman in an itchy sweater with a Lunchable that she carefully balanced on her palm as she built tiny cracker and ham sandwiches only to finish them off with a large can of Red Bull; and, this takes the cake, a woman with a hammer in her bag.
At one point I looked up at my window and noticed a large red bar across the top that said “In Emergency Lift Bar and Pull.” I wondered, does a Saturday morning migraine-inducing ride qualify as an emergency, or should I save this for my return trip?
There was a fine bottle of Pinot Noir waiting for me at my friend’s house. And a ride home in a Jag.